The Restoration
by Turrislucidus
Summary: After leaving the Factory, Mr. Teavee decides something must be done about Mike's size. For one thing, it's wintertime, and Mike's jacket doesn't fit. Will Mr. Wonka oblige him? Based on the 2005 rendition of the book. Sadly, the website doesn't allow me to use the correct spelling of the Teavee's names in the character list, but having no choice, I'll use 'em as is. Enjoy!
1. Asked

The Restoration  
~or~  
How Mike Teavee Lost the Chocolate Factory for the Second Time

* * *

They couldn't leave. Standing inside the Chocolate Factory door, with the other children making their way down the steps and through the courtyard, Mr. Teavee held up the pathetically small jacket against the body of his pathetically stretched son. The mismatch, in somebody's world, might have been comical. It wasn't in Mr. Teavee's world. In his world, it was a disaster.

They couldn't stay. Oompa-Loompas were ushering them out, and the Factory's owner, Mr. Willy Wonka, was out-and-about in some flying elevator doohickey, with the old geezer and the starving kid beside him, watching the scene from above.

They left. The others, before they could be accosted by the Press, got into cabs. A cab was not possible for Mike. They walked. The hotel wasn't far, thank God: the press of the Press just made it seem that way. "No comment," Mr. Teavee muttered, followed by, "See for yourself," followed by, "No comment."

Mike slept on the floor that night. He didn't fit in the bed. Mr. Teavee wrung his hands. They'd have to go back. This wouldn't work, couldn't work, wasn't _going_ to work! And yet, Mike, aside from his shape, was fine.

"Doesn't it hurt, son?"

"No, dad. I look like I've been steamrollered, but I feel fine. I can't explain it, but I don't hurt anywhere, at all."

"We're going back, son."

"Okay, dad. But you have to admit, this way, I'm head and shoulders above anyone else in my class."

His father shook his head, and ordered room service. Later, thinking of the bullies who had formerly taunted him, but who now had no choice but to look up to him, Mike smiled, and fell asleep.

* * *

Six o'clock sharp saw the two outside the gates of the Chocolate Factory. There were onlookers, but they were few. Still, it was embarrassing. Standing and looking longingly wasn't working. Feeling like a fool, Mr. Teavee said a name: "Mr. Wonka."

Nothing.

He said it a little louder. "Mr. Wonka."

Nothing.

"Mr. Wonka! I know you can hear me."

Shifting on his feet, Mr. Teavee assessed how peculiar he must look, and the continued silence making him angry, he lost his patience. With that lost, Mr. Teavee exchanged his timidness for temerity. "Answer me, Mr. Wonka, answer me! Mr. Wonka, Mr. Wonka, Mr. Wonka!"

Mike, bored, weight on one foot, rolled his eyes. He knew his father couldn't see it. Some one else could, though. From a recessed speaker, high up in the right side wall, they heard a giggle.

"That's my name, don't wear it out. What cha want?"

"I want you to fix my son!"

There was a pause, and then, from the left side wall, equally high up, came the words, "That's a tall order," followed by a fit of giggles, and some guffaws that weren't his. Mr. Teavee swung his head to face the direction of the sound. That must be the Oompa-Loompas joining in, thought Mike. God, I don't like them.

"But okay."

The voice was back on the right side, and Mr. Teavee's head swung like a metronome.

"So, skinny tall-boy, what are you waiting for? If you lie on your side, you can slither through the bars like a snake."

This from the left side, and Mr. Teavee's neck was beginning to cramp. "No! My son is not going inside this factory without me!"

"Why not? Ya weren't much help to him the first time you were here."

From the right again, and Mr. Teavee put his hands to his head in frustration.

"But okay."

The gates glided open, and the two glided through.

An Oompa-Loompa, and only an Oompa-Loompa, met them at the door.

"Would you like to accompany me to the Chocolate Room?" he enquired. "It has high ceilings," and he smiled as he laughed.

Father and son scowled, with Mr. Teavee shaking his head.

"That's the last place we want to go. Take us to Mr. Wonka."

Laughing, another Oompa-Loompa joined them. "That would have been so much funnier if you'd said, 'Take me to your leader', but you didn't, and you've lost me my bet. Willy said you wouldn't say that.  
"Mr. Wonka is busy just now. He said, if you didn't want to go to the Chocolate Room, where he will be in ten minutes, to take you to where he will have you stay until he can otherwise work you into his schedule. Please follow me."

"Then we'll go the the Chocolate Room!"

"Too late! You were made an offer, you refused it, and this is the consequence. Choices, consequences: anything familiar in this? Never mind. Please follow me."

* * *

After a long and winding walk, up, down, and around, there were more Oompa-Loompas in their destination hall, affixing a gold plaque to the side of the tall, arched double-doors that would give entrance to their accommodations. As the two workers scampered off, arms draped around each other's shoulders, as if they needed the support to keep from falling from their laughter, Mike bent down to take a look. The Too-Big-For-His-Britches Suite the plaque said, but Mike had the impression the plaque was changed to suit whoever was in that suite, and really, when you thought about it, in just the right way, kinda sideways maybe, it was a _little_ funny.

Mike opened the doors, and found paradise, the more so because it had nothing to do with, yuck, chocolate. Inside was luxury undreamed of in a modest suburban home in Thornton. Certainly, the papers had all said Denver, and they _did_ live in the greater Denver area, but his family were out in the 'burbs, and the 'burb they were out in was Thornton. His father trailed in after him, his mouth on his chin.

"I guess the candy business is good," he said.

"Ya think," replied Mike, his words dripping with sarcasm, the way the ceiling was dripping with creamy, white plaster, with clusters of flowers and fruits adorning the corners and borders, and surrounding the base of the chandelier that lit the living room they found themselves in. It might be meringue, or whipped cream, or some other impossible concoction, but it was beautiful. Impressed in spite of himself, Mike stood on his tip toes, and tried to touch it, to see. He couldn't reach it. Eying it still, he sighed. "Do you think you could eat it?"

His father smiled, surveying the rest of the room. He'd seen pictures of Versailles, and this room put those grand rooms to shame. The fabrics, the wainscoting, the decorative wall decor, the opulence… it was all… too… but, at the same time, so pleasant. A bowl of fruit glistened on the round mahogany pedestal table in the center of the room. Yes, glistened. Moving to examine it, Mr. Teavee found the fruit real, but better. Selecting a ruby-dark grape, he sampled it. Juicy and flavorful, the glistening was a tissue thin glaze of flavor counterpoint, the seeds inside made of darkest chocolate, with that touch of bitterness the real seeds would have had, but these with a hint of salt that made all the difference.

"Ummm…" he munched.

Mike moved to the drapes. They were damask silk, floor to ceiling, the same dark ruby red-purple as the grapes. He found the fabric real, but the braided pulls to draw them licorice. Pulling a sample from a tassel, it was delicious.

"Eat all you'd like of the eatable items," said the Oompa-Loompa who'd led them here, and who they'd forgotten about. "We'll replace them with new, and nothing in these rooms is experimental. If you gnaw on the un-eatable things, take notes. I'm sure Willy would like to know your impressions."

They saw he'd thrown open the doors to the opposite bedrooms, each with its own amenities, and he pointed out the location of the small, but well-stocked kitchen.

"You should have everything you need here, but if you don't, pull this cord. I doubt anyone will come, but it will make you feel as if you're doing something positive."

With that he crossed his arms across his chest, bowed and turned his back. It took Mr. Teavee until their Oompa-Loompa guide had reached the two steps that would take him out of the sunken room, and unto the landing, before he realized they were being left.

"When will Mr. Wonka get here? How will he fix Mike?"

"That's up to Mr. Wonka; possess yourself with patience. It's yourselves that have put you into this jam. You're lucky Fearless Leader is bothering with you at all, and if yesterday had unfolded the way he'd planned, I suspect he wouldn't be."

"What's that supposed to mean?" queried a belligerent Mr. Teavee, with jutting chin.

Mike had moved to the table, and had taken a banana. It's dark veins and creamy ivory begged to be bitten into. He did, and discovered all the flavors of a banana split. The ivory was ice cream with intense vanilla flavor, with the thin, dark veins crackly chocolate that was as much fun to listen to, as it was, for once, good to eat.

The Oompa-Loompa was at the door.

"Hey," mumbled Mike, his mouth full. "Where's the TV?"

As he went through to the hall, the Oompa-Loompa, not bothering to pause, or answer Mr. Teavee's question, reprised the relevant lyrics of Mike's song from yesterday. Their faces red, the one angry, the other humiliated, they both stared as the door closed.

"Really, son!"

"Sorry, Dad." Mike wasn't really sorry, but he knew he hadn't made any points with that question, and the apology was the only way to avoid the lecture. When in doubt, change subjects. "Everything in this factory is about food. Do you think Willy Wonka was starved as a child?"

"I wouldn't know, son, and I don't care. I care that he puts you back right, and that's it."

Mike only nodded, wondering how his father could be so careless. As far as Mike was concerned, it was a given that they were being watched and listened to. He prowled around the suite, looking for bugs and cameras. Having no luck, they whiled away the day, still waiting as night fell in earnest.

* * *

"Good morning, Starshine, the Earth says, 'hello'!"

Mike's eyelids fluttered. There was no sunlight. I must be dreaming. You can say anything you want in a dream. "You said that yesterday."

"And little Missy Girl-Blue Chews-Her-Cud-Like-A-Cow said similar to _that_ yesterday. What's yer point? This a bad time for you?"

Mike heard a giggle: a high-pitched giggle.

"Should I come back later? I thought we'd de-stretch ya, but if later's what yer waiting for, it's no skin off my nose."

Another giggle: this was no Oompa-Loompa.

"I'm going. You go ahead and wait."

As he lay with his pillow and blankets on this plushiest of carpets, the bed here being too small too, Mike felt the hem of a silk coat brush his forehead, as its wearer twirled. This was no dream.

"Wait, no! Sorry! I'm up! Wait!"

A hiss met his ears that meant: quiet!

Awake now, Mike bolted to his feet, only to find it very dark in the room, and ditto through the narrow, viewless windows: they were frosted, but they let in light, and there was none from that source.

"Is it morning?"

"It's morning enough for me, after midnight's the definition, and it's after midnight. Now, shush, and tippy-toe outta here, cuz we're not taking yer pater."

"My pater?"

"Tsk! Don't they teach you anything, dummkopf? The guy in the other room."

Mike was sleeping in his clothes, the only ones that fit, and this bothered Willy Wonka not the least. Running a hand through his hair to muss it the way it should be, and not the way sleep made it, Mike followed as best he could. What had Wonka called him? Dumm something? Dummkopf? He wasn't dumm—dumb—whatever.

Anger rose in Mike, and he clenched his fists, feeling the heat rise in his neck, tendrils of it finding his cheeks. He was glad it was dark. The anger cut through his grogginess, and Mike thought of making a smart retort, to put the lie to Wonka's insult, but instead bit his lip. He needed Wonka. Wonka was going to fix this. Tamping his anger to a manageable level, Mike concentrated on following. This was easier than he'd imagined it would be, as Willy Wonka's face, as pale as it was, reflected the little light available, and the living room came equipped with unobtrusive night lights. In the hall, a cadre of Oompa-Loompas fell into step behind them, with the lighting subdued, but adequate. Mr. Wonka pocketed the goggles he'd had on.

"Goggles?"

"'Course, Curious. They're the night vision kind, of my own design."

Once in the hall, Mr. Wonka quickened his pace. The shawl-collared, ankle length robe he wore flew out behind him, comforting Mike. Were it a frock coat, like yesterday, he'd have the image of Willy Wonka bending over him in his mind, and Mike knew he couldn't handle that. Time to think about salvation. It was nearing with every step, and thrilled, Mike rubbed his mental hands together, anticipating the delights of the Taffy Puller.

* * *

When they reached the room, Oompa-Loompas, who had been trailing after Willy like iron filings after a magnet, swarmed the console.

"Not tonight, all," called out Willy. "Tonight, it's my turn."

Chagrined, the Oompa-Loompas formed into a half-circle, and began singing.

_"__We very much regret that we,  
__Have botched the job with Mike Teavee—"_

Willy's happy laugh cut them off. "No, you're not. Why pretend? I heard what the little blockhead said, and I don't blame you." In the cadence of the song Willy sang: _"It serves him right!"_

With grins all around, with the exception being on Blockhead's face, like a tide, the Oompa-Loompas withdrew to the edges of the room. Pleased, Willy crossed his arms in the ceremonial bow, and they reciprocated the gesture. That settled, rocking on his heels, Willy turned to where Mike stood, and cupping a hand to his mouth, called up to him, as if Mike's height put him on another planet.

"Are ya sure you don't want to be a basketball player? Cuz what I'm gonna do now is pretty much gonna put the scotch on that career."

"I'm sure," said Mike, resignation heavy in his voice.

"There's something else you need to think about," said Willy, as he stepped to the control console.

"What?"

"This will be the end of your looking down on me."

With Willy leading the way, the room erupted in laughter. So amused was Willy by his own observation, tears wet his eyes.

"Ha, ha," said Mike, his doubt that such jocularity in the face of this delicate procedure was conducive to a favorable result, causing him anxiety. "Can't we get on with it?"

"We can, Sourpuss. Stand on the scanner."

The scanner, in the center of the room, was round on this occasion, of a size large enough to accommodate Mike, but Mike could see that it was adjustable in both shape and area, and, if needed, might occupy the entire floor. The ceiling was also adjustable, giving Mike more than enough headroom. Once Mike had taken his place, an Oompa-Loompa came forward holding a graduated beaker full of a green and yellow swirled beverage. Mike was familiar with it: he'd been given a drop of this on round one. The amount must be related to his mass.

"Down the hatch, soon-to-be little boy."

Mike took the drink. This time, he could make out the flavors: cabbages and apples. It wasn't bad. He heard the hum of the magnetic field activating, and felt his feet leaving the floor. Smiling, that was the last thing he remembered.

* * *

_This just for fun, not for profit, perhaps educational story features_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _characters, with no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and, possibly, reviewing. Both brighten my day, as I hope this chapter has brightened yours._


	2. Answered

Mike woke to a feeling of weightlessness. His view of the room was the same as it had been when he'd fallen asleep, or whatever it was that that drink made one do. Had it worked? Was he still tall? Mike held up his hand, turning it over. It wasn't thin, like parchment. It was normal; so were his wrists; so were his forearms. Smiling, he looked down, only to gasp. He was floating in mid-air!

Willy Wonka, behind the control console, raised his head while lowering the clip-board he held. After handing it to him, along with the pen, the Oompa-Loompa he'd been conferring with scampered off.

"Awake, sleepy-head?"

Disconcerted, Mike thought he heard kindness in the question. "Uh, yeah… Why am I still up here?"

"You seem to enjoy levitation. I thought I'd let you make the most of it. Wanna come down?"

Mike nodded.

"The easy way, or the hard way?"

About to get sarcastic, Mike checked himself. If he'd learned anything in this factory, it was that you could have your own way, whether your own way was what you _really_ wanted, or just what you _thought_ you wanted. "The easy way."

"That'd be my choice," agreed an affable Willy.

With his left hand, Willy moved a group of three slide potentiometers so slowly, Mike decided he'd need chalk marks on the far wall to know if he were moving. "Not that easy," he said, his trademark annoyance ringing through.

Willy laughed, his movements speeding up significantly, dropping Mike like a stone, but at the last minute reversing what he was doing, regrouping, and bringing Mike to the surface of the scanning platform with the lightness of a feather. Satisfied, he stood with his head atilt, beaming at Mike. "Happy, Unhappy-One?"

Mike stepped off the platform, wishing there were a mirror handy. He felt all right. He seemed all right. He was the right height, the right width, and if that were so, all was right with the world. He _was_ happy … But there was no reason for Wonka to know that. "Do you have a mirror?"

Stepping from the console, Willy gestured towards the door.

"You can admire yourself—and my handiwork—back at your suite. We're going."

Suddenly, the last thing Mike wanted to do was leave this place. It wasn't his brain that told him so, it was his body. His breath caught in his throat; his stomach tightened; his heart skipped a beat, only to beat faster when it started again. His suite was so _boring…_ This was so _unbelievable… _Mike thought fast, coming up with a stall tactic. He wasn't going to admit to Wonka that he, Mike, was impressed.

"How'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"You know what!" Mike stamped his foot.

"Trade secret. We're going."

"You'd need, like, nine atomic—"

"Bombs, yeah, and I'm an idiot, you covered that yesterday. Is this the review? Is there gonna be a quiz? Cuz I'm not takin' it. The door is this way."

Hearing the squeak of Mike's sneakers heading in the wrong direction, Willy stopped next to the round portal of the door, and turned. Placing his walking-stick in front of himself, its tap got Mike's attention. Willy held up a key. "Push all of my buttons you like, little boy: no key, no power, no energy, no mischief."

Mike colored. He had that coming. "I wasn't going to touch anything. Why does this control panel look like the transporter console from _Star Trek_?"

"You've seen the original? That's weird."

"Not when everyone says that all I do is watch TV."

"True, true," chuckled Willy, pleased at finding another fan, or at least, someone who'd seen that show enough times to recognize its accouterments, and also because he found the misplaced defensiveness in Mike's voice amusing. "It looks that way cuz I made it look that way. Why not? Beam me up, Scotty! Wonderful! That is kinda what this does, except that's not really what this does."

Gulping at such an informative, friendly answer, Mike thought he'd press his luck. "Why do you call it the Taffy Puller? There's no taffy anywhere near here."

"I don't."

"You do!"

"I don't! Ya gonna stamp your foot again? Cuz that's gettin' pretty predictable, and yer borin' me. Do you always stamp the same foot? Does it get sore?"

Mike licked his lips, his mouth slightly open. He'd better think. How could he ask this, and get the answer he wanted? "It sounds, to me, like you call this the Taffy Puller. _Is_ that what you call it?"

Willy laughed, his eyes merry. Progress! "Nah, I call it the TAFFE Puller. Taffy would wreck it: make it sticky, and gum it up, and you _know_ how much I hate gum."

Mike tired to make sense of it: taf-fee… taf-fy… Wonka's pronunciation did sound a little different, but wha…

With long strides, and a determined look, Willy made for where Mike stood. Anxious about this crazy man's unpredictability, Mike, heart pounding, nevertheless stood his ground. Willy, with a flourish, halted two paces away, pointing with the tip of his walking-stick to a plaque Mike hadn't noticed before. It was low-down on the console, and small.

"Read it."

Mike read: "Transformationally Accurate Form Fixing Equipment."

Willy beamed. "See? T.A.F.F.E! And the scanner pulls you up. So there ya go: it's the TAFFE Puller."

And then Willy broke into giggles, that broke into laughter, that broke into heartfelt, out-right guffaws. "Did you really think I'd stretch you out on a real taffy-puller? Have you ever _seen_ a real taffy-puller? I used to watch 'em by the hour. They don't stretch! They fold, over and over, and what good would _that_ have done _you_?" Willy wiped a tear from his eye. "You should have seen the look on your pater's face! You should have seen the look on _your_ face! Well, I couldn't really _see_ the look on your face, it was too small, but I have the imagination for it, so I saw it that way."

Waiting for Mike's reaction, with head cocked, Willy brought himself under control. When there was no verbal reaction from the tot, only a slack look, slack jaw, and half-open mouth, Willy added a cocked brow. "Taffy got yer tongue?"

Mike closed his mouth, and swallowed a few times. He had finally noticed that Wonka was without his top hat for this occasion, and his bangs were absurdly short. But he had a high forehead, with plenty of room for brains. Funny how the hat cut that off.

"I don't like being laughed at."

"I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at the expression on your face, and the expression on your pater's face. Is the sum of your being a transitory expression on your face? Or is there more to you than that?"

Mike had set his mouth in a thin line, and Willy, suddenly exhausted, was over it with this humorless boy. "Step away from the controls, little boy. I'm done, you're done, and we're going. Follow, or you'll be lost, and I mean that."

Mike felt a door shutting, in the sense of an opportunity, and surprising himself, he felt panicked at the loss. Whatever it was that was happening here, the feeling he was being shut-out, after being included, was stifling to him. Wonka had reached the door.

"I liked that there's been no pain."

Willy swung around to face Mike. "Of course there's been pain, oh selfish one. I'll keep it localized: The Oompa-Loompas you hit and knocked to the floor felt pain. With the bruises you gave them, they're feeling pain still. What you mean is that there's been no pain for _you_. I'm so happy for you. Now catch up. Were you to get lost, I doubt I'd bother looking for you."

The precariousness of his situation sinking in, Mike caught up. The loathing in Mr. Wonka's sarcastic, 'I'm so happy for you' dwarfed the sarcasm Mike had offered to date by nine atomic bombs. Which is why what happened next so confused Mike.

* * *

_This just for fun, not for profit, perhaps educational story features_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _characters, with no copyright infringement intended. Ditto for the_ Star Trek_ mention. __Thanks for reading, and, possibly, reviewing. Both brighten my day, as I hope this chapter has brightened yours._

_**Squirrela**, you kind person, for leaving a review: thank you. I was playing a video game, having fun, but feeling like I was wasting my time, and that made me think of Mike, and that made me think of this, so here it is, getting written. I'm glad you're enjoying it._


	3. Good-bye

They walked and walked, up one corridor and down another, through one room and through another, for far longer than it should have taken them to reach the suite. This was more of the Factory proper, Mike knew it, and some of it was more amazing than the rooms they'd been shown on the tour, which were pretty amazing. 'Far too much to see' Wonka had said, and he wasn't kidding. Willy walked in silence, seemingly oblivious, and Mike, thinking of question after question, asked none of them: he didn't want to give Mr. Willy Wonka even a glimmer of satisfaction that he, Mr. Mike Teavee, was showing any interest whatsoever in anything that Mr. Willy Wonka had accomplished, and that included getting Mike back down to his original size. Instead, Mike observed.

The Factory was quiet at this hour, but as they walked, Oompa-Loompas on night-duty came and went, nodding and smiling at their employer as they passed, with Willy doing the same for them. Most avoided looking at Mike, though a few threw scowls his way, and the rest, if they did accidentally make eye contact, made their faces a blank. It was clear to Mike that he hadn't made any friends with his previous behavior, but also that the factory denizens held one another in great respect. As different as this was from the atmosphere in Mike's home, Mike could see that what they were exchanging was more than respect: it was affection. Lost in those differences, and thinking over the lack of that last quality in his house—a circumstance that Mike usually went to a lot of trouble to ignore—as they crunched along the rock-candy graveled shores of a vast, lemonade lake, Willy spoke.

"If you were given an opportunity, Master Teavee—A wonderful opportunity!—A stupendous opportunity!—A fantastical opportunity!—Would you turn it down because you couldn't bring your family with you?"

Master Teavee? Mike caught his upper lip with this lower teeth. It was an odd question, even for Wonka. Mike pondered. Wonka wasn't looking at him, he was looking away across the lake: as if he hadn't realized he'd spoken the question out loud. Mike thought about what he'd lose if he lost close proximity to his family. He could think of lots of things, but none of them were anything he thought he'd miss. "No," he answered. "I'd take the opportunity. What opportunity?"

"You would? Even if it meant you'd never see your family again?"

It was clear, from his measured response to Mike's answer, that Willy had known he'd spoken the question out loud.

"I would," affirmed Mike.

"So would I," said Willy, looking as if he were about to sigh, but not doing so. "So would, I would have thought, anyone, until yesterday."

They left the lake, and through a portal door, reached another corridor.

"Was there anything about the tour that you liked?"

That feeling of being included was back, and Mike didn't want to spoil it. Truth be told, there'd been lots of things he'd liked about the tour. In fact, acting—for his father's benefit—as if he were having a horrible time had been getting tiring. Smiling and waving as he'd been lifted in the 'pulling' part of the Television Chocolate machine had been a joy; liberating, even. It occurred to Mike that showing the delight he'd felt all along might have been a better plan. He turned his focus further inward. Liberation: what would that feel like?

"Was that a hard question? Or is the answer 'nothing', and you don't want to offend me."

Mike had to smile. He hadn't realized he was taking so long to answer. That Mr. Wonka was asking if causing him offense was what was slowing Mike down was downright funny. Mr. Wonka must have thought so too, because watching Mike's face reflect Mike's thoughts, Mr. Wonka laughed. This time Mike had no doubts the laugh was with him, and not at him.

"I liked smashing pumpkins," said Mike, his small smile still in place.

"The band, or my jelly-filled gems?"

Mike couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to laugh happily, but he knew he wanted to now. "Both," he said, being careful not to laugh any way at all.

Making an unexpected about-face, Willy back-tracked, and turning down a side corridor, pushed open a narrow door. The scent of hot, melted chocolate, of the finest quality filled their nostrils, and the roar of the chocolate fall filled their ears. They were standing near the far edge of the pool formed at the foot of the fall, the place where the yacht had been moored. It was there still, oars stowed, with not a rower in sight. Willy took an expansive breath, blissfully drinking in the delights that two of his senses freely offered him. Mike's nose wrinkled at the sudden stench, and before he could think, he quickly clapped a hand over his nose and mouth.

"Isn't all this contaminated by that Gloop kid?" Mike mouthed, his outburst prompting Willy to eye him as if he were a germ.

"I'd say you're mumbling, but clearly you are muffling." Willy shrugged his shoulders. "Muffling's okay. I'll answer. I burned that lot, last night, and all that that self-littering litterbug touched has been sterilized." Willy paused, curious. "Didn't you smell it? There was loads of it. I thought I'd given the whole town a whiff."

Not from behind the closed windows of our hotel, thought Mike, though he had noticed a kind of a funny smell over the town the next morning, as he and his father had made the walk back here. At a brisk pace and not waiting for an answer, Willy led them further up the slope. Following, a grateful Mike made an adjustment to his defenses.

"You hate chocolate," Willy said to Mike conversationally, with not a hint of animosity. "Is there a reason for this? That you know of?"

Mike sighed. Chocolate … The smell of chocolate … He wasn't fond of it, any of it, and this room was not his favorite, though it did hold the pumpkins. With the adjustment he'd made, the smell of the fabric of his sleeve across his nose was dampening that sickening odor. Wonka had that look that said he thought Mike a germ that ought to be under a microscope back on his face.

"It's that bad? You didn't do that during the tour."

Mike nodded, reluctant to let go his shield. But he was a tough kid—he'd been tough on the tour—and so he did. "Not that _you _saw, or my _dad_ saw, but that doesn't mean I wasn't doing it. My dad said if I did it, I'd be being rude."

"And that stopped you?"

At first wanting to laugh spitefully at the question, upon hearing Wonka's naked incredulity, there was enough goodness in him for Mike to hang his head. Wonka and he both knew Rude had eventually triumphed, and Mike had the sore knuckles to prove it, and remind him.

"'Mmmm…" Willy would check with the Oompa-Loompas. They saw everything. "Continue."

"When I was little, two I think, I got into my parent's Halloween stash. I ate all the chocolate in one sitting, and that made me sick: really sick. Since then, I can't stand the stuff."

"Or stomach it."

Instantly, knowing what was coming next, Mike shot Wonka a look—Mike's lips a thin line, his brows a deep 'V'—and gauging that defensive hate, Willy stifled the giggle gurgling up at the back of his throat. To be fair, sickened by chocolate was too hideous a disaster to contemplate, and nothing he should laugh at, buuutttt, 'stomach' versus 'stand' _was _a good word-play, and worth a titter or two, buuuttt… "Okay, okay, I won't… Ya look kinda green." Willy, to his immense shock, felt sorry for the kid. Then he remembered what Eshle had told him. "You ate the Banana-adana Dandy Split … That had chocolate in it."

"I didn't know that when I ate it."

"You didn't spit it out when you discovered it."

Mike colored. "I knew you had cameras in the room."

"Tsk, tsk, you untrusting boy. I had an Oompa-Loompa in the room: Eshle. He gave me a full report. You ate the whole thing: with a smile on your face."

The color on Mike's neck made it to his face. It was true: he had. "I couldn't really taste the chocolate. It was mostly just crackly in my mouth, and I liked that. It was mostly about the other flavors."

"That would be banana, mostly," agreed Willy. "The chocolate veins are not the main attraction, and the crackly sensation they add is a counter-note to the creaminess of the rest of the ingredients." They were nearing the pumpkins. "So how'd ya like the chocolate? Cuz ya did keep eating it."

Ducking his head, Mike thought by now he must look nearer a beet than a boy. How humiliating!

"Ya liked it!"

The infernal Wonka wasn't going to let Mike live this down.

"It's okay, you can admit it, my chocolate's not anybody else's chocolate, and that makes all the difference, even for you, who hate chocolate."

At least he gets it. Mike ground his teeth together. If he gets it, let it end!

With the kindest of smiles, Willy, with the gloved knuckles of his left hand, gave Mike's shoulder a gentle nudge. Mike, leaning into the nudge, gave Wonka a glance. It was no use pretending, even to himself: the man knew Mike had found the chocolate tolerable; good, even, and it _had_ been good. "That's because it's mixed by waterfall," Mike said.

Willy, after a pause, laughed. "Why did I say that? It's mixed by chocolate fall!"

It was Mike's turn to laugh.

"Too bad about your paa, paa—"

"Parents," said Mike smugly, his embarrassment abating on account of Wonka's display of discomfort.

"—not being able to hide chocolate properly."

Mike could see that Wonka's eyes were taking on that far away look he'd gotten whenever that starving kid had asked him a question.

"It was Halloween, you say…"

From the equally far away tone, Mike thought he'd be treated to one of those flashbacks he'd seen, but it was not to be. Wonka's voice was firm as he continued.

"My pater's policy regarding confectionaries saved me from your fate-worse-than-death. It's strange to think that that policy may have been beneficial to me. This, dear boy, will be beneficial to you." So saying, Willy took a small flat jar from his pocket. Unscrewing the lid, with, of course, his signature 'W' emblazoned upon it, he offered the contents to Mike. "Take a dab of that, and smudge it beneath your nose."

Uncertain at taking anything Wonka offered, Mike nevertheless did as he was told. A minute later, his eyes widened in wonder. "It's gone! I don't smell the chocolate any more!"

"Yeah," Willy smiled, "you don't smell anything else, either, and that's the problem with that stuff. It stops your nose from smelling anything, and smell is one of the big biggies in telling you how things taste. I'll bet back in the suite, all you could smell was the banana. It doesn't surprise me a bit that the chocolate made it past ya. I can only use this when I don't plan on needing my sense of taste. That, heh, in my line of work, is not too often."

"Will I get it back?"

"Oh, yeah, the effect only lasts, like, an hour, but who's got an hour to not be able to smell or taste things in?"

Me, thought Mike, easy. Super easy! With the smell of the chocolate neutralized, Mike could enjoy the room. The lighting was dim, as befitted nighttime, but in the nighttime, with the candy copses shrouded in shadows, the wonder of the room was the ceiling. With its dominating soft glow, Mike's eyes were drawn to it. Far out of reach, thousands of light tubes of various lengths and thicknesses hung from the heights above, each tube fitted with a LED at its end. The result was the Milky Way, in all its miniaturized glory.

"I see you see it," said Willy, pleased at Mike's reaction. "I like Space. I like Space in my space. That Space, up there, is the same as the Space outside this space, which is to say, the same space you'd see if you were standing outside, looking up." He pointed with his walking-stick. "That's the constellation Cassiopeia. Like it? I like it. Know why? Know why?" Excitement gripped him. "Cuz it's really the Wonka constellation! Know why? Cuz it looks like a 'W'!"

Mike grinned. "So it's your favorite constellation."

"So, you're so wrong! My favorite constellation is not a constellation. It's an open cluster, and I like it because it's so pretty, and so unlikely. Wanna smash some more pumpkins? Feel the need for a climbing body-count? Here they are."

Something in Wonka's voice made Mike think the question was a trick, but trick or not, at the moment, Mike didn't want to destroy anything. It was all too beautiful for that, and destroying it—any of it—seemed, well, stupid, and well, Mike wasn't stupid.

"No."

The word hung between them.

"Thank you," Mike added.

"Then wonderful, time to move on." With a heft of his walking-stick Willy whirled, and was on his way. "As charming as you've been in these _wee_ hours, your suite awaits."

The suite? Mike had forgotten about the suite. He'd been enjoying this. It was ending? Maybe… "I liked the exploding candy."

Climbing up the hill to the door they had entered the room from during the tour, Willy pushed through to the long, red-carpeted corridor before turning, and lowering himself into the squatting position he used when talking over something important with the Oompa-Loompas.

"Ah," Willy began, now eye-level with Mike. "I was hoping you'd bring that up: Exploding Candy, for your enemies … I ask you, can anyone _have_ an enemy, when they are armed with candy?"

Disconcerted by the sudden close attention, but interested as well, Mike gave a nervous laugh.

"But that room was right up your alley, wasn't it? I thought it would be; more so even than Television Chocolate would be, and I was right. That _was_ where you showed me your true colors … Let's see, what was going on? Oh, yeah, there were the Oompa-Loompas shooting at targets; keeping score as far as you knew, 'cept they really weren't, and hey! That makes them doing what you do, 'cept not with a screen, and you, watching it, described what they were doing as pointless! Pointless! Your word, little boy, not mine.  
"Do you think, little boy, that living a pointless existence is why you're so angry all the time? Because what you spend your time doing—all that screen time—all those games—all those destructive, pumpkin-smashing, first-person shooter games you think you like so much, are, to use more of your own words, a waste of time? Do you think that day-after-day you're so angry, because day-after-day, year-after-year, you _waste_ your _time_? And you're livid, and grinding your little teeth into tiny nubbins, because you _know_ you're wasting your time? And knowing you're wasting your time, you do nothing? Time you'd be happier, as intelligent as you are, spending in some other way?"

Mike had stepped back in shock. No one spoke to him in this way. The words were firm, but the tone was soft; caring, even.

Willy, pulling back, straightened up.

"I hate lectures. Givin' 'em; gettin' 'em. Don't you? But pointless wasting of time: d'ya wanna do something about it? If ya do, dear boy, think about those nine atomic bombs you're so fond of. Until you come to grips with what's behind them, it will never change for you."

Willy was striding away again, but desperate, Mike ran to catch up.

"I don't know what you mean!"

"Don't you? What did you hate the most about the tour? What do you hate the most about me? About my Factory?"

"I don't hate you," Mike spat.

"Well, not as much now as ya did when we started this adventure, cuz let's face it, when it comes to me, what's not to like? But you still don't like me. Look at that sourpuss look you have on your face right now, and were I standing any closer to ya, my robe would be wet, yetch, from your spit, yuck!  
"But it's okay. I don't take it personally, and anyway, you don't really hate me, any more than you're your facial expressions. You hate something else; something that I represent to you. Figure out what that is, little boy, and change your life.  
"Cuz ya know what? Now that I've been your _shrink_," Willy put his hand to his lips, tittering, "I can see that, lucky you, those true colors you showed me on the tour _aren't_ your true colors. Fix that. Unless ya wanna spend the rest of yer life acting.  
"And now, the cock is about to crow. Ahlia here will see you to your suite. Sleep as long as you like—you'll fit the bed now, and it's darned comfy—wake up, ring the bell, have breakfast, ring the bell again, and you and your pater will be escorted to the door. You are free to leave. You are not—a pity for and about you and your parens—free to stay."

Mike could only gape. Willy's eyes studied him, shifting as they reflected the thousand thoughts he might add for this boy, before deciding he'd said enough.

"So there ya go. It's been real, and it's been fun, and maybe for you it's been both, or maybe it hasn't, but either way, we're up to the part where I say: bye-bye, little boy, bye-bye."

With a jaunty, mock half-bow and wave of his fingertips, Willy retraced his steps to the Chocolate Room he loved, and that Mike Teavee, Willy now knew, would forever loathe. It was a fact Willy accepted with some disappointment, but without rancor.

Watching the sashaying walk of that retreating back, the silver and blue of the rich brocade catching the light and gleaming, like glimpses of promises, Mike's fingertips curled into fists. The rage he knew so well, and that had gone out like a tide while he was with Wonka, was filling him once again, as it always did: the solution to almost every problem Mike faced. How dare that weirdo up and leave like that! As if he were, were—Mike's mind cast about for a word—_worthy_ of doing whatever he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it! He was a wacko! A loser! And he hadn't answered all of Mike's questions! By this time, Mike's face was as red as the carpet, but this time it was anger's brush that did the coloring.

"Ba, ba, ba, ba…" the sounds of frustration coming out of Mike's mouth were almost comical. Ahlia was hiding her face. His torment tied-tongue finally formed words to shout down the corridor.

"My NAME, Candyman, is _not_ LITTLE BOY! It's MIKE!"

"And mine is WILLY!" came the echoing reply. "Have a happy life, MIKE!"

Mike, stunned, watched the Chocolate Room door sigh closed, wondering what other doors had closed to him. There wasn't a doubt in his mind, as heartfelt as that wish floating through the air had sounded, that as sure as there was a skull on Mike's tee-shirt, Willy Wonka had meant every word of his wish for Mike.

Ahlia beckoned.

"He says, have a happy life," Mike mumbled. "I'll try."

* * *

The End

* * *

_This just for fun, not for profit, perhaps educational story features_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _characters, with no copyright infringement intended.__Thanks for reading, and, I hope, reviewing. Both brighten my day, as I hope this story has brightened yours. Thanks also, to those of you who favorite and follow this. Thank you._

_There's a nod to Roseanne Roseannadana in this chapter. How could I resist, with a need to name the banana treat? May we all spare a thought for the late, great, Gilda Radner, Roseanne's inventor._

_**Squirrela**: Thank you for your review. I am wondering though, how anyone might find '05 Wonka annoying. Oh, wait, Mike might! I hope you enjoyed this story._


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